


Jenna Hilliard and the Eldritch Tome (Working Title)

by ostrichlittledungeon



Series: Jenna Hilliard: An HPMOR Continuation Fic [1]
Category: HPMOR - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality - Eliezer Yudkowsky
Genre: HPMOR Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23887714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ostrichlittledungeon/pseuds/ostrichlittledungeon
Summary: Set some thirty years after the events of Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality, yet another school year begins at a reformed Hogwarts. Dark forces are amassing in every corner of the world, and Harry Potter's most important research has been at a standstill for several years now, thanks to a particularly esoteric partial differential equation (requiring techniques from hypercomplex analysis). Join Jenna Hilliard, daughter of one-time head boy Robert Hilliard, as she and her friends embark on their first Hogwarts adventure. It's your move, Black.
Series: Jenna Hilliard: An HPMOR Continuation Fic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721677
Kudos: 5





	1. An Unexpected Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experimental upload. Updates will be slow (say, once a week).

Jenna Carlisle Hilliard was no ordinary 11-year-old girl. She had begun to realize, at the age of about 6 or 7, that her ability to recall precise, minute details about pretty much anything she’d ever seen was not, in fact, a typical feature of the human condition. After this discovery, her parents had placed her in nearly every gifted children’s program in the county, and her first-class memory gave her an intense edge over the other students, which tended to gain her the enmity of her peers. Not always, though. There were a few other smart kids in her grade who tolerated her, but she didn’t know if she would call them friends, exactly. More often than she liked to admit, she just didn’t fit in, undoubtedly because she was way ahead of her classmates as far as material went. She had a solid foundation in high school algebra and geometry, knew more about western history than her sixth year history teacher, and had read the entire collected works of Lewis Carroll, Edgar Allen Poe, and Shakespeare, along with several other books that no sixth year had any right to be reading. She was currently enjoying Douglas Hofstadter’s  _ Gödel, Escher, Bach _ , though she was skipping over the math bits, because they took quite a lot of concentration to follow, and more importantly because she didn’t really understand what they were getting at anyway.

Her parents were Hana and Jimmy Carlisle, who had a different last name because Jenna’s birth father had left her and her mother alone when Jenna had been just two years old. Jenna’s mother didn’t like talking about it, and moreover it was sort of depressing to think about, so Jenna wasn’t exactly in the habit of it. And there wasn’t any need to anyhow, because Jimmy Carlisle was a wonderful dad. He was an architect, which was pretty interesting by dad job standards, and she was quite fond of going into Oxford, or Reading, or London together just to hear him point out the interesting historical buildings and also to complain about all of the  _ inexcusable _ engineering faux pas committed by the dreaded city planning committees, who couldn’t tell an arbour from a pergola. Her mum, on the other hand, worked as a sous chef at a nearby restaurant, which was significantly less interesting, though she still certainly reaped the benefits of free desserts “on the house”. And she had a little brother too now: little Jackson Carlisle, who was walking but not yet talking, and who seemed to take great pleasure in scribbling all over Jenna’s school art projects.

It was nearing the end of summer break, so Jenna wasn’t currently doing much of anything. She was comfortably seated, cross-legged, on a faux leather settee, watching some Gordon Ramsay show on the television with the volume turned low and absently petting the cat, whom she’d named Mister Whiskey (after whiskers) before she’d really known anything about alcohol. It was getting into the dog days of summer, and so a fan was on, blasting her with a short jet of cool air once per rotation. Gordon was just starting to cool down after a screaming match with a stubborn restaurant owner over letting a cat in the kitchen, when there was a knock on the door, and, being the closest to the foyer, Jenna rose to her feet. Mister Whiskey scrambled into the other room. 

“I’ve got it,” said her mum, running to the mirror by the entrance to check her hair before hurriedly answering the door. She shrieked in a mixture of surprise and horror, then proceeded to slam the door on the unsmiling old woman in dark black robes and a pointed hat who stood on their doorstep, turning the lock and running up the stairs. “Jimmy! Jimmy!”

As Jenna watched with some surprise, the lock turned back on its own, and the woman stepped inside, frowning up the staircase. Her head turned after a moment, and her eyes settled on Jenna. 

“Do forgive the intrusion,” she spoke in a crisp Scottish accent. “Ordinarily, I would not enter one’s home without their express permission, but I suspect I would have been turned away otherwise. You are Ms. Jenna Hilliard, of course.” It was a statement, not a question.

Jenna thought rationally that she ought to be terrified at the sight of this trespassing stranger who somehow also knew her name, but the woman’s old age and stern demeanor gave her an air of authority and importance which superseded Jenna’s concerns about private property, and caused her to respond.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, and then her parents came tumbling down the stairs, her father looking torn between shock and fury, and her mother looking pale and faint.

“Who are you and what right do you have to barge into our house uninvited?” James Mersenne Carlisle boomed, drawing himself up to look more threatening, though he was kind of a small man, certainly not as tall as the woman who stood in his mudroom (though her hat might have made her seem taller than she actually was).

“I am Minerva McGonagall,” she responded in even tones, apparently unbothered, “Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I am rather  _ put out _ by your failure to deliver your daughter’s acceptance letter to the proper party.” Jenna’s mum flinched a little at the emphasized words, though if you didn’t know her, you likely wouldn’t have noticed.

“So _you’re_ the one who was sending those _ridiculous_ letters,” her dad said, with deadly invective she would never have expected from him. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth was drawn into a snarl. “What sort of deranged lunacy are you peddling, anyway? I’d call the police on you right now if you were a day younger than you appear to be. I have friends in Scotland Yard, and I had half a mind to get in touch with them when your _third_ _letter_ appeared in the post.”

Jenna didn’t quite agree with how angry her father seemed to be, though it was admittedly pretty silly that this very serious woman had said “witchcraft and wizardry” without the slightest hint of levity, as though magic were an actual thing that existed in the real world, and not just in stories.

“Clearly your wife has told you nothing,” Minerva McGonagall of Hogwarts said drily, and then she turned into a cat. Jenna’s dad fell over backwards, and Jenna gaped at the small tabby that now stood in the older woman’s place, unable to comprehend what she had just seen. Her mind turned it over slowly, puzzling over each frame of the inexplicable transformation she was able to visualize. Mister Whiskey padded over to investigate, hissing threateningly at the breach of territory. Jenna’s mum had her head in her hands, sitting down next to where her husband had fallen on the staircase. And then the Headmistress was back, and Mister Whiskey sprinted away in alarm. Some part of Jenna was screaming at her to disbelieve, to question how it could even be possible. She either ought to be uncovering the self-proclaimed witch’s nasty trick, or she ought to be throwing out literally everything she thought she knew about the world. Instead, she mostly just felt confused, and a little impressed.

“Your daughter is a witch, Mr. Carlisle,” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “as was her biological father before her.”

“No way,” Jenna managed quietly, after a short time. “I’m a witch? But I’ve never—” And then her mind made a connection. “Is that why I have a photographic memory?”

The headmistress started a bit at that. “No,” she replied. “I’m afraid that’s quite unusual, even by wizarding standards.” She gave Jenna a curious, abstracted look.

“This is ridiculous,” her dad managed to stammer out, though he looked much less certain than he had several seconds earlier.

“It is not,” said McGonagall, looking quite severe. She turned again to the girl whom she had just claimed was magical, and said, “Ms. Hilliard, has anything ever happened around you which you could not explain? Underage displays of magic are fairly common in intense moments or when under emotional duress.”

And Jenna thought back. When she’d been nine years old, her fiercest competition in the school spelling bee had inexplicably started coughing up blood after taunting Jenna about her absentee father. She’d honestly been more upset by the sight of the blood than by the girl’s remarks, and it had cleared up as quickly as it had started, though the girl had been taken home by horrified parents.

Then there was the exploding birthday cake, which had erupted into a volcano of frosting after she’d fallen and scraped up her shins playing tag at her friend’s birthday party. She’d needed stitches after that, and her friend’s parents had needed a bath.

Also, she’d once laughed so hard at a movie that the projector had broken, and theatre staff had not been able to figure out why or how, and they’d been given a shrug and some complimentary popcorn, with apologies.

In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she realized that bizarre coincidences like that had pretty much defined her childhood, and she’d never thought anything of it apart from having a vague feeling that she was “ambiguously lucky.”

“...wouldn’t have believed me,” her mum was saying, pacing in the extremely short hallway between the kitchen and the tiny foyer where this was all taking place. “I’m  _ sorry, _ darling, but you wouldn’t have, and you know it! You would have had me carted off, once it was clear that I was serious.”

“Is that why you married Robert?” Jimmy Carlisle said suddenly. “You said that you were blinded by—were you blinded by the fact that he could do…  _ magic _ ?”

“Yes! But, oh, Jimmy,” Hana replied, wringing her hands and looking very agitated, “let’s talk about this later, once we’ve resolved the—” she gestured helplessly at the black-robed witch, who was at that moment rooting around in a tiny pouch at her waist.

Minerva McGonagall pulled out an envelope which was much too big to have fit in the pouch it came out of, and handed it to Jenna, who stared intently at her own name and address alongside the name of the addressless school called “Hogwarts.” She broke the seal, which was wax with the letters “HW” in fancy script pressed into it, and pulled out the letter, which read aloud to her in the Headmistress’ voice.

“Dear Jenna Hilliard,

“You have been accepted into the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where you will continue your ordinary studies while also learning the principles of magic and spellcasting. As an eleven-year-old, you will be in your first year, alongside many other students, some of whom are already quite familiar with the wizarding world and some from non-magical backgrounds. You will be sorted into one of Hogwarts’ famous four houses, each of which is a tight-knit community to hopefully serve as your home away from home—located on the banks of a small loch just east of Ben Hope in Northern Scotland, it should go without saying that Hogwarts is a boarding school. Whether or not you were already aware of your capabilities, you will be trained to your full potential by the finest that Magical Britain has to offer, from myself, to Dr. Harry Potter of the Wizengamot, to Filius Flitwick, five time champion of the Magical Dueling Federation. 

“It must come as quite a shock to learn that you are a witch. Fortunately, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is staffed with several world class licensed therapists, and we are certain you’ll find the rest of the staff quite affable as well, so there will always be someone to talk to, if need be. We are also outfitted with two computer labs (new this year!) with a laptop loan system, though as Hogwarts is a castle with ever-shifting geometry, providing consistent WiFi to all parts of the school is an ongoing challenge.

“Because of the nature of your case, a representative, such as myself, will very soon be sent to provide additional guidance. Please be advised that a rejection of this invitation will come with just as many consequences as an acceptance. I look forward to meeting you either way.

“Yours, Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress”

“Apologies for the brevity,” said the actual McGonagall, giving Jenna a tight smile. “There is a more extensive letter in that envelope there, along with a list of the books and materials you will need. I’m afraid, however, that my time is of the essence today. There are more children in your situation than usual this year, and there are simply not enough hours in the day.”

“I don’t suppose,” came the strangled sounding voice of Mr. Carlisle, “that you’ll just go away, and leave us alone?” He was still seated on the staircase, staring up at the oddly dressed woman with a far away look in his eyes.

“Unfortunately,” McGonagall said, her forehead creasing in concern, “there are dark forces out there which threaten the wellbeing of young witches and wizards. Hogwarts is incredibly safe, and is well guarded against infiltration—there have been just two deaths in total over the past thousand years of operations, and only one was permanent. Ms. Hilliard will be in no small amount of danger should she decline to attend. There are other options we can discuss, other schools she could attend—”

“Do I get a say in this?” Jenna asked, gingerly setting the envelope down on the settee behind her, and picking up Mister Whiskey as he tried to sneak by, likely out of a curiosity to know where the other cat had gone. He twisted in her arms in an attempt to escape, but she held him firmly in place, and eventually he gave up. “I get that you’re bewildered, dad, because I also didn’t know about this until just now, but I  _ want  _ to know more. If magic is real, and if I can use it, then it would be a shame not to attend this school.”

“Well said,” said the old witch, “though I’d prefer you not torment your cat in my presence.” She pointed a short stick of wood with a knob on the end at Mister Whiskey, and he was lifted out of Jenna’s arms and gently onto the floor, as if by a pair of invisible hands. He looked up at Jenna, miaowed softly, and then turned and strode off, back into the kitchen.

“Mum, I don’t know why you never told me,” said Jenna, turning to her mother, who was now leaning against the door to the garage, looking very faint.

“You wouldn’t have believed me either,” was the response.

“Of course I would have,” Jenna said. “Kids will believe anything you tell them. I read a story online about a boy who grew up thinking that left was right and right was left, just because his parents thought it was funny, and he still got confused sometimes even as an adult.”

Her mum blinked. “Where’d you read that?”

“Excuse me,” said Headmistress McGonagall, “forgive the interruption, but there is another house nearby which I absolutely must visit today, and I suspect that I will miss its inhabitants if I don’t leave very soon. Ms. Hilliard, are you amenable to meeting again in, say, three days' time, to go and collect the books and materials you’ll need for the coming school year? I hope that will also be enough time to come to a final decision.”

Jenna nodded emphatically, and the woman responded by tugging on the brim of her hat, in what she suspected was intended as a polite gesture. “Then I will see you this Saturday. Good day.” Then she turned, the door opening on its own, and then closing on its own as she strode outside. Through the panes of glass beside the entrance, Jenna watched as she walked down the driveway before vanishing in a small flash of light.

“Good day indeed,” said her father, who gave her mother a look and then headed upstairs, her mother following after a brief moment of hesitation. Jenna, for her part, sat back down in the living room, unmuted the television and turned the volume way up, then upended the envelope from Hogwarts, noting that the shorter letter that had read itself out loud had gone missing. She skimmed the materials list, hoping that some of the items were a joke, then picked up the three page acceptance letter, and began to read.


	2. Get Rich Quick

The Leaky Cauldron was so run-down and filthy that Jenna wondered at the fact that it was even allowed to operate at all, especially in a city as proper and gentrified as London. And then she saw that the patrons were all wearing the same sort of ridiculous robes that McGonagall wore, and understood.

“Why do wizards dress like that?” Jenna asked Matilda Dewcross, the young Hogwarts Professor who had come in McGonagall’s stead (on Friday, Jenna’s mum had found an owl with an envelope in its beak standing politely on their doorstep. As it turned out, McGonagall had some serious last minute business to attend to, and so would not be able to personally escort Jenna to Diagon Alley, which Jenna had thought was just another joke until Professor Dewcross had shown up and explained that, yes, it was a real place, and that, no, she’d never noticed the pun in the name before).

“Why are you wearing denim pants and a shirt with a cat on it?” asked the professor, as though the questions were somehow equivalent. Jenna frowned.

“Another first year, Matilda?” asked the man behind the bar, an older gentleman with a terrible hunchback. He grinned, and Jenna saw that he was missing several teeth.

“Yes,” she said, with a curt nod, walking over to the bar. “This is Robert’s daughter.” Jenna wondered then how much she would be associated with the father she’d never known in this strange, small world, where everybody seemed to know everyone else. Or maybe it was just the bartender.

“Eh…” said the man, scratching his back with long, dirty fingernails. “Looks Muggleborn. Don’t know any muggles named Robert.”

“Hilliard,” the professor clarified.

“Ah,” the bartender responded, closing his eyes in recognition, and he swayed a little where he stood. “I remember him. Good kid, married a squib, I think. How’s he doing now?” This last question was directed at Jenna, who fixed the old bartender with a level stare.

“He abandoned me and my mum when I was a toddler,” she said, and the old man broke into a wheezing fit, which ended with him thumping his fist against his uncomfortably protrusive spine and howling in pain. Jenna looked around, but nobody seemed to even notice. Maybe the regulars were used to that sort of thing, and all of the patrons seemed like the type to frequent a pub called the Leaky Cauldron.

“A thousand apologies, Ms. Hilliard,” he said, eyes watering.

“No problem,” managed Jenna before the young professor cut in.

“Thank you, Tom,” she said, and Jenna filed away the name just in case it ever became relevant again. “Now, if you please...”  
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Tom the bartender, shuffling out from behind the counter. He was making heavy use of a hefty wooden cane with what looked like a doorknob at its top. He pulled a ring of metal keys out of his robes and started toward a small door at the back of the establishment, before spinning swiftly and pointing his cane at a customer sitting at the bar, who had drunkenly pointed a wand at a bottle of… maybe absinthe? and said “ _Accio—_ ” A red bolt of light shot out from the tip of Tom’s cane and hit the wizard’s outstretched hand, causing the man to yelp and the wand to go flying halfway across the room.

“Nothing more on the house, Mr. Grubber, and I suggest you go back to your room before I hit you with something worse than an _Expelliarmus_ ,” Tom yelled, brandishing his cane threateningly, as though he’d never needed it in the first place. The defeated-looking Mr. Grubber scrambled over to his wand before retreating up the stairs and out of sight.

A few people had looked up, but most remained engrossed in their private conversations, and nobody looked surprised.

“Sorry,” said Tom with a toothless grin. “Most of ‘em know I’m not to be trifled with, but every once in a while…”

“Diagon Alley,” demanded Professor Dewcross humourlessly.

“Yes, yes,” Tom said, “come along.” He fitted one of the heavy keys into the lock, and opened the door, which led into a small back alley, which was furnished with several garbage cans, complete with a swarm of gnats. Tom stepped forward and tapped on the brick wall twice with his cane, causing it to fold back on itself to either side, revealing a long road which went on a ways into the distance before turning sharply to the right. On either side, vibrant shops advertised fantastic and bizarre magical items in flashing neon lights, and there were also several vendors selling items from carts. It was absolutely bustling, with kids of all ages running around gleefully, followed by adults in their dull black robes, some looking annoyed and others nostalgic. “Enjoy,” said Tom, and Jenna turned to see the door slam shut behind them. She ran a bit to keep up with Professor Dewcross, who had rapidly strode into Diagon Alley, and she heard the bricks rearranging themselves back into a wall behind them.

“Gringotts Bank first,” said the professor, who was passing the shops with an uninterested air, which Jenna wondered at.

“A bank?” she asked. “Will I have to take out a loan?”

“What?” Professor Dewcross asked, looking horrified. She’d stopped walking, which gave Jenna the chance to catch her breath. “No, Jenna, your father left you money. You have a family vault.”

“Did he die?” she asked, alarmed. “To be honest, I didn’t really consider the implications of my birth father secretly being a wizard, amidst all the other, you know, more pressing concerns. Like, are dragons real? Do I really need to buy jars of lizard eyeballs to make potions out of?”

“Slow down, kiddo,” said the professor, putting a hand on her shoulder. “We don’t know where Mr. Hilliard is, but he’s certainly not dead. We can detect that sort of thing when it happens. He probably moved away to Albania or something. I hear it’s nice there this time of year. Wanted to get away from all the fog and rain, maybe. Happens more often than you’d expect.”

Jenna nodded. It made sense. “A-and the dragons?”

“Native to Romania and Bulgaria, mainly. No need to worry about that. Come on, let’s get to Gringotts before it closes.”

* * *

The massive Gringotts double doors opened into a long, ornate hall full of bank tellers. It was a ridiculous sight, even before Jenna realized that every last one of them was a little person—no, a _goblin_?

“Goblins?” Jenna whispered to Dewcross, who confirmed it with a short nod. _How does that work?_

The professor led her all the way down the hall to a tall desk at the end, where a goblin with a tuxedo and a golden monocle sat. He was scribbling furiously with a quill, and didn’t look up until Professor Dewcross cleared her throat.

“Name?” he drawled, in a voice that was simultaneously deep and squeaky, somehow. He didn’t look up, instead looking over what he had written.

“Jenna Hilliard,” Matilda Dewcross said, sharply.

“Vault key?” he asked, holding out a gnarled hand. His nails were well-groomed, but there was ink underneath them. He still didn’t look up.

Professor Dewcross placed a small electronic chip in the waiting hand. The goblin stopped reading, looking at the chip. “Ah, one of the new ones. Please wait a moment.”

The goblin hoisted himself from his tall chair and waddled over to a small goblin-sized door, which he opened with a 6-digit key combination. As they waited, Jenna stood on her tiptoes and strained to catch a glimpse of what the goblin had been working on, but Professor Dewcross kicked her in the back of the leg and she stumbled in place. The older witch shook her head.

The goblin returned, carrying a metal box about as big as he was, and placed it in front of them, where it jangled with coins. “One of four,” he said. “One thousand galleons inside each of the first three. The last has two hundred and eighty nine galleons, 14 sickles, and 20 knuts.”

“A galleon is roughly worth 45 pounds sterling,” whispered Professor Dewcross, and Jenna’s eyes widened.

“That’s…” _some quick mental arithmetic…_ “One hundred and fifty thousand pounds!?” _That’s actually not very much in the long run_ , a part of her which was fiscally responsible observed, and then the sensible part of her remembered that she was eleven years old, and that kind of money at her age meant that she was effectively rich.

“You’re allowed to withdraw 25 galleons, which should more than cover the cost of your materials, and still leave you with substantial spending money.”

“Yuh—yeah, that’s…” _so much money_ “plenty.”

The sight of the immense pile of gold inside the box took Jenna’s breath away. _All of that belongs to me_ , she thought, _unless Robert comes back to claim it, I guess._ It didn’t make sense to her to conceptualize the elder Hilliard as her father. She’d settled on thinking of him as Robert. Impersonal, and vaguely insulting. Though she did call her dad Jimmy sometimes, affectionately. Strange to be thinking of her family while standing in a hall full of goblin bank tellers. _Better get used to it_ , she told herself.

* * *

By the time they returned to the main part of Diagon Alley, Jenna had started to think of Professor Dewcross as Mcgonagall Lite.

“What do you teach, anyway?” she asked, as they wove their way through a crowd that had gathered at an ice cream stand. The vendors were yelling at the crowd to form into lines, but their voices weren’t carrying.

“Sonorus,” Dewcross spoke idly, pointing at the vendors with her wand.

“TWO LINES,” one of them boomed, and then covered his mouth in surprise.

“History,” she said, and Jenna nodded. Made sense. “I also occasionally sub in for the Headmistress to teach Transfiguration. There’s a ghost who taught history before I did, and who will likely go on teaching history after I’m dead, so I’m covered when things happen.”

“There are _ghosts_?” Jenna asked. “How does that work? Are they sentient?”

Professor Dewcross shook her hand in the semi-universal gesture for “so-so”. “Sounds like you’d get along well with Professor Potter. He’s always…” she tapped her head. “It’s always interesting what Muggleborns are surprised by, what wizards take for granted.”

“I suppose I’d take a lot for granted, if I grew up around magic,” she said, thoughtfully. “I’m guessing from context clues that muggles are non magical people? What’s a squib?”

“It’s not a very friendly word, Jenna. I wouldn’t go around saying it. Tom is… old-fashioned. Squibs are half-magical. They can interact with it, but they don’t have any magic themselves. The nicer term is nomaj. That’s with a ‘j.’ Actually, that’s what Americans used to call muggles back in the 1920s and 30s. There’s a history tidbit for you.”

“That’s dumb,” Jenna said, reflexively. She didn’t particularly regret saying it. “In fact, that seems to be kind of a running theme. What kind of a spell is _expelliarmus_ ? Is there a cleaning charm you cast by saying _mopafloorus_?”

“I think the incantation you’re looking for is _totemundus_ ,” Professor Dewcross said, looking only slightly amused.

“I see,” said Jenna. “Well I guess it makes sense to name a school ‘Hogwarts’ if all the spells you know are in literal pig latin.”

Dewcross chuckled. “You’ll definitely like Professor Potter. Now.” She clapped loudly. “Shopping?”

Jenna spent most of the afternoon in Flourish and Blotts. 

“Magic squares!?” she exclaimed, holding up a sixth year arithmancy textbook for Professor Dewcross to see. “It’s insulting, honestly. I’m eleven, and there isn’t a single math concept in this book I’m not familiar with. I’m not even that _good_ at math.”

“There’s arithmancy,” Professor Dewcross said, looking very tired, “and then there’s math. Different subjects, Ms. Hilliard. Might I suggest you peruse the calculus textbooks over there?”

“At least you teach math,” Jenna said. “I can’t imagine potion making would go very well if wizards didn’t know how to count and add.”

“Ah,” the older witch said, “that would be one of Professor Potter’s reforms. Teaching muggle subjects is a recent development, and it’s challenging to find teachers because most older wizards ended their muggle educations at age 11.”

“That’s terrible,” Jenna said. “It sounds like Harry Potter’s the only sane person in Magical Britain, and he literally became mythological at my age. Wait, no. Infancy, right?”

“I suggest you read about it in _Hogwarts: A History_ , on your own time, if you want to know more. It’s important that you get fitted for your robes before Madam Malkin’s closes.” Jenna opened her mouth to say something, but Dewcross cut her off. “Even if you prefer not to wear a uniform, it’s important to have them for special occasions. Now please, Ms. Hilliard, these books need to be bought.”

Professor Dewcross wandered off “for some tea” while Jenna was fitted for her robes. The door jingled open cheerfully as she had her arms spread wide so that Madam Malkin’s assistant could measure her “wingspan,” and she craned her neck in an attempt to see who had come in.

Two short, proud-looking kids around her age emerged from between the racks, a boy and a girl, each with a shock of messy black hair. The mischievous smiles they bore were identical, and it was instantly clear to her that they were twins.

“Be right with you,” Madam Malkin said from the back of the store, as she worked on Jenna’s robes based on the measurements her assistant was taking. She had her wand in her mouth, so it came out a little muffled.

“You a first year too?” asked the boy, taking a seat on a nearby couch as his sister wandered the racks.

“Yeah,” Jenna said. “Kind of new to all this, though. My father was a wizard, but I never knew him.”

The boy nodded solemnly. “Our grandparents were _Death Eaters,_ believe it or not. Uh, sorry, that means they worked for You-Know-Who.”

“I don’t know who, actually,” Jenna replied. “Sounds spooky, though.”

“Yeah,” the boy agreed, grinning. “I’m Luke.”

“Isabelle,” said his sister, from somewhere over there.

“Jenna Hilliard,” she said, holding out her hand, which got her an annoyed look from the assistant and a laugh from Luke, who was still sitting a ways off.

“So,” he said, after a moment which seemed awkward to her but didn’t seem to faze Luke, “where do you figure you’ll be sorted?”

“Oh!” Jenna said. “Well, I know there’s… Slytherin? Ravenclaw? Um, sorry, I don’t remember the others.” She did remember, actually. She’d visualized the table of contents of _Hogwarts: A History_ instantly, and she could see the names of the founders. She wasn’t exactly sure why she’d lied.

“Only ones that matter,” Luke said, with a shrug. “Slytherin’s an old tradition, but I’m personally hoping for Ravenclaw.”

“You’re smart, then. Or… clever? Which one is it supposed to be, again?”

“Doesn’t matter, cause I’m both.”

“Real modest, Luke,” Isabelle called, from where she was trying on an exceptionally tall and pointy hat.

That prompted a frantic “please don’t touch the merchandise if you aren’t going to buy it” from the assistant who was now measuring Jenna in very small and strangely precise ways.

“Hm,” said Jenna, and visualized the periodic table in her head. “What element has atomic number 20?”

Luke counted on his fingers for a few seconds. “Calcium.”

Jenna thought some more. “What organelle reads RNA and synthesizes proteins.”

“Ribosome,” said Luke, smiling. “I like your style.”

Jenna thought back to the most obscure history books she’d read, and pictured herself reading one of them. “French Revolution. Who killed Marat?”

Luke frowned, then after a bit: “I’m stumped. Oh, I know David was the painter who did his death scene.”

“Good enough,” Jenna said, shrugging.

“Charlotte Corday,” Isabelle said, emerging from behind the dress pants. “Wouldn’t expect you to know that one, Luke.”

“You too?” Jenna asked.

“I know a few things here and there,” she said. “Luke likes to overshadow me, though, don’t you, little bro?”

Luke playfully swatted at her as she sat down next to him. “Three hours older than me, and she won’t let me forget it. How do you know so much anyway? Never really met anyone who could keep up with me.”

It took her a moment to realize he was talking to her, not to his sister. “Photographic memory,” she said, without even thinking about it. It might have been prudent to keep that a secret.

“No way,” Luke said, his eyes lighting up. “That’s crazy. Isn’t that supposed to be super rare?”

“Don’t know,” she said. “And mine’s not perfect, not really. I don’t think it’s ever actually been proven to exist. Lots of people who claim—”

“I haven’t read a ton of muggle literature,” Luke interrupted her, speaking slowly, “but, say, Alice in Wonderland?” Jenna nodded. “How does Chapter Five start?”

Jenna was feeling much like Alice, actually, so it was a fitting suggestion. She thought hard, and saw in her mind the words “Chapter V,” under a drawing of Alice looking up at a caterpillar smoking a hookah. She closed her eyes and read.

“The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence, until at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a sleepy voice.

“‘Who are _you_?’ said the Caterpillar.

“This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation.

“And then I-I’m not sure what comes next,” Jenna admitted. “Or, I know it generally, and there are some lines that stand out, but it’s not totally clear.”

“Brilliant,” said Luke, smiling widely, then substituted the expression for a frown, and Jenna realized that it was probably pretty hard to know how he really felt about stuff, if he could project false emotion so easily. “Though that puts me at a bit of a disadvantage. I suppose you’ll be the Hermione Granger to my Harry Potter.”

As little as that meant to Jenna, she felt pretty insulted by it. “And who says it won’t be the other way around?”

Luke nodded thoughtfully, then intoned in a grand voice: “Jenna Hilliard, brightest witch of her age. Luke Lestrange, lowly research partner.”

“You’re a Lestrange?” Madam Malkin’s assistant asked, after she’d finished up her last measurements. “I’ve got one of you in my year. I’m a Gryffindor, though, so I don’t see much of her.”

Luke looked at her, as if for the first time. “You must be…” He tapped his finger against his cheek thoughtfully. “Afaldora Khanna.”

“What gave it away?” the British Indian witch with a tree stump tattooed on the back of her hand asked, her voice dry.

It was at that moment that Professor Dewcross chose to enter the shop, as did a man with the same black hair and facial structure as the Lestrange twins, though he looked grimmer and more exhausted.

“Who’s this?” the elder Lestrange asked, as Luke began to get his measurements taken. His tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it was icy. He reminded her of a politician, though much more sinister. The words _Death Eater_ flashed into her consciousness.

“Mr. Lestrange,” said Professor Dewcross, before any of the children could respond, “I’ll ask you not to make enemies in my presence.”  
“Enemies?” he asked, looking genuinely shocked. “Madam Dewcross, you do me a great injustice by mistaking my intentions so. I am not my parents, and I would not make enemies with a child even if I were.” He looked grimmer now. “Prejudice is not only found in Slytherin, it would seem.”

“Sorry,” interjected Jenna, “I don’t know much about wizard politics. Is Slytherin house supposed to be prejudiced?”

“It was, once,” said Mr. Lestrange, looking at Jenna curiously. “Tell me, where do you hope you’ll be sorted?”

“I don’t think I know enough yet,” Jenna said, “but maybe Ravenclaw?”

Mr. Lestrange nodded. “A fine ambition, though ambition belongs in Slytherin. It matters much less today where you’re put than it used to. Some people,” and here he gave Professor Dewcross a sidelong look, “are still very much attached to their house loyalties. Once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor, as they say.” He gave a shrug. “I do not say that, though.”

“You’re part of the Wizengamot,” Jenna guessed. “Which side—”

“I’m a firm member of Harry Potter’s faction,” he said. “As is Lord Malfoy. There isn’t much of an ‘other side’ left, I’m afraid. The only significant opposition is Dolores Umbridge, and then, well… Votes are extremely unbalanced these days, so much so that they tend to be more a formality than anything. Mister Potter gets his way, and that’s how we like it. Not since the days of Merlin have things been so unanimous.”

“So where’s the danger?” Jenna asked. “I was told that I didn’t really have the choice to decline my invitation to Hogwarts.”

“That’s quite enough,” said Professor Dewcross, giving Jenna a meaningful look which did not mean very much to her. “Ms. Hilliard, I suggest we move along to—”

“Ah, Jenna, is it?” Mr. Lestrange said. He pulled out a card, which he held out to her between two fingers. “I was told by someone rather important to me that you might find yourself in need of my services at some point this year.” She took it as she passed him on the way to the door. “Take care of yourself, Ms. Hilliard,” and then he turned his back on her to watch as Luke was fitted for his robes.

“Bye,” said Isabelle cheerily, giving her a wave as Professor Dewcross led her out the door. Jenna waved back.

 _Lesoth Lestrange_ , read the card. _Loans, installations, and other hit services._ Then there was a telephone number. She made sure to take note of the number in case Professor Dewcross asked to see the card or take it away, but the older witch did not even mention it. She had a feeling she knew exactly what it meant, and somehow Mr. Lestrange had also known she’d understand. _Who thinks that I’m going to need to hire a hitman at age eleven? Why me?_


	3. Books and Beans

Saying goodbye to her parents turned out to be harder than Jenna had thought it would be. Of course, she loved her family very much, but she wasn’t really the sentimental type. And she’d be going to a school to learn _magic_ . Excitement ought to have been her primary emotion. It was _stupid_ for her to be sad; she would FaceTime her parents twice a week, so it wasn’t even really goodbye. But that didn’t stop Jenna from crying as she hugged her parents tightly and told them she’d miss them terribly.

The train platform was bustling, but Jackson Carlisle was more taken with the trains than with the people.

“Thomas!” he kept saying, clapping excitedly.

“I’ll miss you,” said Jenna, planting a kiss on the little boy’s forehead.

“Bye bye,” he said back, giving her a little wave.

“Talk to you soon,” she said, giving her mum a hug.

“I still don’t think it’s right for young children to be so far away from home,” said her dad, who was doing his best not to let the tears show.

“It’s all right, dad,” Jenna said, giving him an even bigger hug. “I’ll be kept very safe and happy if McGonagall has anything to do with it.”

And with that, she left to go look for Platform 9 ¾. The first thing she tried was to show her ticket to one of the staff members nearby, but the lady seemed to struggle to look directly at the small piece of paper, and was perplexed by the question.

Then she spotted black robes and someone wheeling a trolley with a caged owl disappearing around the corner, and she pushed her way through to see if they knew how to get to the Hogwarts Express.

The robes belonged to a family of wizards: two very tall men in their late thirties and a boy, who looked maybe a little older than her. She ran up and tugged on one of the men’s sleeves.

“Excuse me,” she said, as he turned and looked down at her. He had a moustache, and glasses with frames so vibrantly green they hurt to look at. “Do you know how to get to Platform 9 ¾?”

“Of course,” he said, pleasantly. “Come with us. It’s Bernard’s first day too.”

Bernard gave her a small smile, and they walked together along the platform.

“They really should tell first years what to do,” said the other man. “I’m surprised they would just leave kids stranded like this.”

“To be fair,” Jenna replied, “the professor who escorted me to Diagon Alley needed a couple of drinks after our trip to Flourish and Blotts.”

“Hmm,” said the man with the moustache, “would I be wrong in guessing Professor Dewcross?”

“No,” said Jenna, “but I have a feeling that even McGonagall would have needed a drink after that.” The man chuckled a bit.

They walked on in silence before stopping abruptly in front of a brick pillar.

“Here we are,” said one of the men. “All you have to do is believe you’ll make it through, and run at the wall.”  
“With my luggage trolley?” Jenna asked, surprised.

“Absolutely,” said the man with the moustache, and he charged at the wall. He disappeared as he went through. Jenna blinked.

“You next,” said the other man, nodding to Bernard. A look of terror passed over the boy’s face, but he went ahead and rushed trolley-first at the pillar, and passed through it with ease.

Jenna worried about her own suspension of disbelief. Sure, she’d seen two people pass through already, but how hard did you have to believe in the magic for it to actually work? Would it work for a muggle? A nomaj? What if there was a mistake, and she didn’t actually have any latent magical abilities? It was disconcerting to think about. She looked at the man nervously, and he gave her an encouraging nod.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, gripping the handle of her trolley harder. She would make it through, she told herself. And at the last second, her trolley about to collide with a hard brick column, her mind was filled with doubt, and…

She made it through.

“Move it right along, right along,” said an officer of some sort, who was using two long glowing rods to direct incoming traffic towards the train platform, which was filled with all sorts of strange people in strange clothing. “No time to stop, unless you want to get yourself hurt.”

At that, Jenna stopped gawking and began instead to wheel her trolley towards the train. There was a conductor at the center of the platform, signing people in and taking their luggage. She made her way there, getting in line behind an older girl with curly red hair. She turned around and gave Jenna a once-over.

“You a transfer?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

“Me?” Jenna asked, looking around uncomfortably. She spotted Bernard, a ways off, talking to an older wizard. No one else was in the queue behind her. “No,” she responded, after a moment. “I’m a first year. Raised by muggles.”

The redhead nodded, then gave her an amicable smile. “I’m Riley. Third year Gryffindor. You need anything, just let me know.”

“I’m Jenna,” she said in kind, “and thanks.”

“You want the Gryffindor pitch?”

“Huh?”  
“I mean, you probably don’t know that much, being a muggleborn and all. Gryffindor is pretty much objectively the best house. All the greatest aurors and Quidditch players come out of it.”

“I’ve heard that Ravenclaw is pretty cool,” Jenna said, mildly. That earned her a stern look from the redhead.

“Ravenclaw is for nerds and wannabe dark wizards,” Riley said, and made a face. “It’s a shadow of its former self, honestly. Used to be pretty good, back when Harry Potter was still a student.”

“That’s not any reason to abandon it,” Jenna protested.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Riley snapped. “Besides, Gryffindor has a better library. What does that say about the so-called ‘House of Reading’?”

Jenna didn’t know how to respond to that, so she stayed silent. A ribbit from behind her startled her so much that her suitcase fell down in her trolley from the sudden movement. Riley made an “eep” noise as the front of the metal cart flew towards her, just barely coming up short.

Bernard was there, scooping up the small brown frog with both hands, before he popped it into his mouth and bit down on it with a sickening crunch.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and then he was off, running back to the older wizard he’d been talking to previously.

“It’s chocolate,” Riley said, in response to Jenna’s horrified expression. “It’s not real, it’s just transfigured like that.”

“That’s a relief,” said Jenna, though she felt anything but relieved. _Why the crunch, in that case?_

“That kid is really annoying,” said Riley. “His dad’s a big fan of Dr. Potter’s, so he’s always at Hogwarts, and he brings his kid with him for some reason. I’ve had to look after him twice.”

“Why you?” Jenna asked, still thinking about the frog. She felt sick.

“Dunno,” Riley said with a shrug. “The Creeveys are friends with my parents, so I’ve had to babysit him before. He likes _Star Wars_ .” She managed to say it with so much disgust and contempt that Jenna had to seriously wonder at the status of muggle media in magical Britain. She’d never seen the films herself, but she knew people who had, and they weren’t supposed to be _that_ bad.

“What kinds of movies do wizards watch, then?” she asked.

“I’m a big fan of Dustin Acromento,” Riley said. “Nestor Andreman, Mika Waii Diti. You know, stuff with big plot twists, like, half the cast was imperiused the whole time, or…”

“Nevermind,” Jenna said. “I guess you don’t know much about muggle stuff.”

“Not really,” said the redhead with a grin. “I guess you don’t know much about magic. You at least know what Quidditch is?” Jenna shook her head.

“Damn,” Riley said, “well, for your information…”

And she launched into a big explanation of Quidditch and its rules, the pros and cons of having a Snitch in your game, etc. Jenna ignored most of it, instead taking mental snapshots of the people and architecture of Platform 9 ¾, which was filled with interesting things to look at, including some stalls on the far side which were selling odd-looking items. She resolved to make her way over there once she’d checked in with the conductor.

“Ticket, miss?” said the conductor, and she was back in the moment. She pulled her ticket out nervously, before realizing that the conductor had been talking to Riley. It took a minute or two for her to be processed, and her luggage levitated to the open cargo hold nearby, and then it was Jenna’s turn.

“Two suitcases, two bags?” he asked, looking over her luggage. “Any carry-ons?”

“No,” said Jenna, before understanding the question. “I mean—I’ll take the backpack on the train with me.”

“Alright, then, you’re all set,” the conductor said, handing her back the ticket, which had been punched several times. On it, the holographic image of a train let out a puff of steam. She shouldered her backpack as her other luggage was floated over to where all the other bags and boxes were, each item tagged with a small scripty _JCH_. “Next.”

And Jenna wandered over to the stalls, eyeing one which was selling strange and interesting looking sweets. She had a couple of galleons and change left in her backpack, so she bought herself some jelly beans and a chocolate frog, just to try it. Then she grabbed a newspaper and sat down at one of the tables, flipping it open to read the headlines.

_BONES TOPPLES UMBRIDGE IN LANDMARK FOREIGN POLICY VOTE 5-3. MALFOY CLAIMS SAYS HE ‘NEVER SAW IT COMING.’_

_SHACKLEBOLT RESIGNATION TO BECOME HOGWARTS PROFESSOR? FORMER MINISTER UNDER FIRE FOR LYING UNDER VERITASERUM._

_AZKABAN GUARDS ACCUSED OF FALSIFYING DEATH RECORDS_

In the center of the front page was a moving black-and-white picture of a tall, dark-skinned man with eyes the size of dinner plates, standing sternly and proudly with his wand raised while flashes of light, presumably from the cameras visible at the bottom of the image, assaulted him from all angles.

“Bertie Botts!” came a familiar voice. Jenna looked up, then set aside the newspaper as she realized who it was. “Wanna play, Jenna?”

“Hey Luke,” she said, “Isabelle.”

“What are you doing reading that garbage?” asked the boy who’d spoken before. He picked up the issue of the Daily Prophet and tossed it aside. Jenna frowned.

“It’s credible enough,” Isabelle said, “just biased towards Umbridge. You’ll want the Quibbler for fairer coverage. There’s a couple of good ones online too.”

“Jelly bean game,” said Luke, eagerly, pointing at the small box of sweets Jenna had purchased. “You’ve never had them before, have you?”

“Not this brand,” Jenna said. “What’s the jelly bean game?”

“They come in all sorts of crazy flavors,” Luke said. “Some are really good, and some are really terrible, and you never know which is which because there are so many. We take turns picking and eating one, and whoever gets the most good flavors by the end wins.”

“And how will you know if I fake a positive reaction?”

“That’s the fun part,” said Isabelle. “You can try to bluff, but if you get called on it, you have to ‘fess up. If you call and you’re wrong, though, you lose a point.”

“Alright, I’m game,” Jenna said, opening the box and spreading the beans out a bit.

“I’ll go first,” said Isabelle, taking a yellow one with blue flecks and popping it in her mouth. Jenna watched her expression carefully, but Isabelle chewed with a measured smile, then announced: “chili pepper. I don’t hate it!”

Luke gave his sister a tally on the small corner of newspaper he’d saved to keep score on. “Alright, my turn,” he said, deliberating for a few seconds. He picked one that was half light blue and half light green. His eyes lit up as his jaw worked. “Some kind of fig, I think.” He gave himself a tally.

Jenna gave him a suspicious look. “Figs aren’t blue. I’m calling you on that.”

“Nope,” said Luke. “Maybe not fig, but it was definitely some kind of fruit. I won’t make you go negative, though. Want to smell?”

Jenna sniffed vaguely at Luke’s open mouth. It did smell fruity. “Fine,” she said. “My turn?” The twins nodded in unison.

She picked an innocuous-looking white jellybean and placed it on her tongue. Immediately, she had the sense that it did not belong anywhere near her mouth. She gagged and spat it out, overwhelmed by the intense flavor.

Isabelle grinned at her. “What was it?”

“Lotion, I think,” Jenna said, unwrapping the chocolate frog she’d bought and jamming it in her mouth before she could think about it.

She felt it move, and crunched down on it with her teeth as hard as she could, shivering in disgust. The taste followed after, and washed away any lingering worries she had.

“Man,” she said, after the chocolate-and-toffee amphibian had disappeared down her gullet, “I’m definitely going to need to buy more of those.”

By the end of the game, Luke had racked up 9 points, Isabelle had a near-perfect 11, and Jenna had managed to squeak by with a measly 4. She’d bluffed once, on a rubber flavored jelly bean, and she’d been called out immediately by the perceptive Isabelle. Isabelle’s only mistake had been nearly choking on a skunk spray flavored bean, and even then she’d played it off pretty well, though Luke had managed to call her on it anyway.

When all was said and done, Luke re-folded the jelly bean box and placed it on Isabelle’s head upside down, declaring her “Queen Bertie.”

“She always wins,” Luke fake-whispered to Jenna, holding his hand to his mouth conspiratorially. “I haven’t won since we were eight, so we don’t really play anymore. But your reactions were really good, honestly.”

“All aboard the Hogwarts Express!” came the magically amplified voice of the train conductor. “We’re leaving in ten minutes, folks.”

“You better buy those chocolate frogs,” Luke said, gesturing at the candy stall. Then he headed off to the train, Isabelle following close behind. She tossed the box/crown in a trash bin on the way.

* * *

Jenna found an empty car towards the back of the train, which was much longer on the inside than it looked to be from the outside, and fished around in her backpack for one of the books she’d brought with her. _Hogwarts: A History_ by Bathilda Bagshot and Garius Tomkink was the one she settled on. She’d decided to put Hofstadter on hold for the foreseeable future. There were much more interesting books for her to read, now that magic was a thing.

As much as she liked the Lestrange twins, she was glad for the chance to be alone with her own thoughts for a while. She’d managed to read the first few chapters of _Hogwarts: A History_ and around half of Adalbert Waffling’s _Magical Theory_ , the latter of which was written at an extremely rudimentary reading level. This meant that the most interesting points were glossed over and never returned to, which made for a frustrating read. She suspected that she’d be able to find more in depth texts in the Hogwarts library.

Having found the page she’d left off on, she continued to read Bagshot’s classic, which was much more in line with her tastes. Ten minutes went by before there was a knock on the cabin door, which Jenna reluctantly opened to find a young witch with long caramel brown hair, maybe 14 or 15, standing there with a smile.

“Hi there,” she said, entering the space and taking a seat across from Jenna. She sounded far more mature than Jenna had expected, which was odd, considering that the girl appeared to be a late bloomer. She was short, and she practically radiated innocence. “Do you have a book I could borrow?”

“Um,” said Jenna. “I only have textbooks with me, sorry.”

“That’s alright. I like textbooks.”

Jenna handed the girl her copy of _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ , which she happily began reading. Two minutes passed without interruption. Jenna tried to keep reading, but was continually distracted by the presence of this strange older witch. The girl, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice at all, and went on reading.

“Don’t you already know that material?” Jenna asked, finally.

“Hmm?” the girl said, distracted. “Oh, yeah, of course.” Jenna waited for her to comment further, but the girl smiled to herself and went on reading.

“I’m Jenna.”

“Nice to meet you, Jenna,” the girl said politely, then instantly went back to reading.

“And you are…” Jenna prompted.

“Hmm?” the girl said. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m heavily invested in your book.”

For a terrible moment, Jenna wondered if this was why Mr. Lestrange had given her his number. Then the hypothesis was rejected, for obvious reasons.

Eventually, the girl put down the book and fixed Jenna with a level stare. “My name is Hermione Jean Granger. It really is very nice to meet you, Jenna. There aren’t many students who would read Hofstadter for fun, I think.” Jenna looked at her backpack in confusion, then spotted all of her books in a neat line next to where Hermione sat.

Then the name registered, and Jenna remembered Luke mentioning it in the same breath as he had mentioned the apparently infamous Harry Potter.

“You’re…”

“I’m in my forties,” Hermione said, sounding more than a little sad.

“A-are you… transfigured? Or… isn’t there a potion that does that? Why—”

“I’m transfigured, yes. Permanently, actually. Forever trapped in the body of a twelve year old.”

“Wow,” Jenna said, and meant it. “That sounds like hell.”

“You get used to it,” she said with a shrug. “Chocolate frog?” She popped one into her mouth, offering another to Jenna. “Oh, this one has a card.” She pulled a small hexagonal card out of her mouth, inspecting it carefully. “Helena Ravenclaw. Cool.”

“Hey!” said Jenna, as she realized that all of her chocolate frogs had gone missing from her backpack as well.

“Here,” Hermione said, floating the small collection of frogs in her lap over to Jenna’s. “I’m keeping the card, though.”

“Are you a Hogwarts professor?” Jenna asked.

“Indeed,” Professor Granger said sagely. “I teach math and magical theory, same as Dr. Potter. I’m also in that book you’re reading, if you’re curious. I was the one who ended torture at Azkaban, and I also rediscovered the magic that the Hogwarts founders used to build the castle in the first place. Among other things.”

“Wow,” Jenna said again, and again she meant it. “And your… transfiguration. Does that make you immortal?”

“More or less,” agreed Professor Granger. “Although these days, anyone can become immortal, if they so choose.”  
“Anyone who knows about magic, I’m told,” Jenna countered, narrowing her eyes slightly. “That’s kind of unfair, isn’t it?”

“The government of Magical Britain would agree with you,” Professor Granger said with a nod, “but the rest of the world does not. You can imagine the risks involved in exposing our world to the muggle population?”

Jenna thought about it, and conceded the point with a nod. “So you’re… here to introduce yourself?” she asked.

“Yes,” Professor Granger said, “though I also have a message for you.” At that, she procured a small, manilla envelope from beneath her robes and presented it to Jenna.

Inside was a note written in handwriting so small she had to strain to read it. _Do not share your gifts too freely, Jenna Hilliard, or you will be used. -HJPEV_

“Who—” But Professor Granger had vanished, leaving Jenna alone with her questions about the sender of the note. Grumbling to herself, Jenna picked up the books the much older witch had quietly removed from her backpack, and stuffed them back inside. She ate a chocolate frog, finding a card for someone named Albus Dumbledore, whoever that was. Then she went back to _Hogwarts: A History_ , her reading uninterrupted for the remainder of the journey.


	4. Good Evening First Years

“Creevey, Bernard,” said McGonagall, in a firm, commanding voice that echoed throughout the Great Hall.

Bernard stepped up to where the ‘Sorting Hat’ would be placed on his head. Jenna was still staring at the ancient artifact with a mixture of awe and horror. She was supposed to be okay with having a mind reading device placed on her head? Nobody besides her seemed to be anxious about this.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning to the prefect who was standing next to the long queue of first years. “Is the Sorting Hat sentient?”

“I don’t know what that means,” whispered the prefect in a mixture of confusion and annoyance, “but shhhhh.”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the Sorting Hat yelled, its wrinkles approximating a face, with eyes and a mouth. It was extremely unnerving, Jenna decided.

Bernard walked over to loud cheers from the Hufflepuff table, sitting down with a sheepish grin on his face. Someone clapped a hand on his back in congratulations. There was polite applause from the other tables. And from the head table. Jenna inspected the head table, which was actually two tables, because there were so many members of the Hogwarts staff.

She spotted Professor Dewcross at the far end, near where the Gryffindor table was situated. Next to her was an austere looking woman with dark skin, gold robes, and a short but wide-brimmed hat. Then there was a very pale woman with a pointy red cone for a hat and vibrant red robes. Next was an older bearded gentleman in green wearing a placid—almost vacant—expression, followed by a younger man with grey hair and brilliantly white teeth. The throne in the center was empty, because McGonagall was busy with the sorting ceremony. After the throne sat a man with a shock of jet black hair and a lightning shaped scar on his forehead. That would be the legendary Harry Potter, no doubt. He looked startlingly normal, even as his brilliant blue eyes twinkled in delight at the proceedings in an old man sort of way.

Next was Professor Granger, followed by a very short man with grey hair who looked very much like a goblin, though his features weren’t quite so pronounced as, say, the Gringotts goblins. Half goblin, perhaps? After the goblin man sat a woman with a face so sallow and unhealthy looking that Jenna couldn’t help but stare. She had big round glasses and greasy golden hair that was pushed back with an ugly tasseled bandana. The chair at the end was empty.

There was another table behind the first, but it was hard to make out who was sitting there from her vantage point. The staff at that table seemed younger, on average. Maybe they were secondary.

“Ferning, Sean,” said Professor McGonagall, and Jenna’s attention was drawn back to the bizarre ceremony taking place in front of her. The queue had moved forward quite a bit now, and Jenna was only 5 or so students back. She tried again with a different prefect.

“Can the sorting hat think for itself?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” came the whispered reply after a moment’s thought. “But please be quiet and respectful.”

“SLYTHERIN!” yelled the Sorting Hat, and Jenna began to grow more alarmed. Surely Dr. Potter wouldn’t be sitting there so pleasantly if any of this was at all dangerous. He had more sense than that… right?

“Fontana, Santiago,” said McGonagall, and now there were only three students ahead of Jenna.

“GRYFFINDOR!” declared the Sorting Hat, after a disconcertingly long period of silence.

“Georges, Hugh.”

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Goyle, Maria.”

Jenna didn’t hear what the hat said in response to Goyle, Maria, because as soon as it called out whatever it was that it called out, she felt extremely faint.

“Hilliard, Jenna!” cried Professor McGonagall, and Jenna forced her legs to move forward, so that she sat down in the chair but was trembling visibly. “Are you alright?” asked the Professor quietly, holding the hat to one side.

“Fine, I’m fine,” she replied, a touch too quickly. “Let’s just get it over with.”

And the Sorting Hat was placed on her head. There was a long stretch of silence before she heard a voice in her head say: “Well, do forgive the intrusion. I have met many scared students in my time, but none, I think, who were actually scared of _me_. At least, not in the bigbrain way that you are.”

“S-sorry,” she stammered out, but it came out as some kind of thought-speech instead.

“No need to apologise,” said the Sorting Hat. “In answer to your question, yes, I am sentient, but only because you have wondered whether or not I am sentient.” In response to Jenna’s confusion, it added, “I am merely a reflection of your own thought patterns, and am therefore just as complex an intelligence as you expect me to be.”

“Okay,” Jenna responded, relaxing a bit, “so how does this work?”

“It’s up to you, really,” said the Sorting Hat. “I can make suggestions, but it’s ultimately your decision.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Jenna. “What do you suggest, then?”

“Ravenclaw is the obvious choice, I think,” the Sorting Hat said thoughtfully, inasmuch as a conditionally sentient being could be thoughtful.

“I figured you would make suggestions to the contrary,” Jenna replied.

“I would and I will. But first, tell me why you’re hesitant about Ravenclaw. I can see it. There’s no point in trying to hide it from me.” A pause, then, “ah, Riley. Unpleasant, that one, I think. Certainly not the greatest role model for an aspiring Gryffindor. Perhaps she’ll gain wisdom with age. And then again, perhaps not.”

“I—”

“No, you’re right. I really should not be speaking ill of other students. It is not my job, and I am certainly in no position to be doing so. I _am_ just a talking hat, after all. Now, Slytherin, that would be an interesting path for you. I make the suggestion because I see that you are pure of heart and of mind. If never there was a dark lady, it would not be Jenna Hilliard. No, you would do great things in Slytherin. I can see no great lack of ambition and cunning in you. Then again, perhaps Hufflepuff. You are loyal and honest, and you would be part of a much tighter community in that house. You would gain the friends you’ve been missing your whole life… no, you don’t, don’t make me laugh.”

“I can’t keep up with you,” Jenna said, despairingly.

“Alright,” said the hat, sounding amused. “Your turn, then?”

“I—I think Ravenclaw. I need to be surrounded by smart people, or I’ll go mad. I know that sounds dreadfully conceited—”  
“It does,” conceded the hat.

“But really, I wouldn’t survive in Hufflepuff. It would be… I would be…” she searched for the word. “Depressed,” she decided.

“And the Lestranges? Lestrange is nearly synonymous with Slytherin, you know. Do you think your new friends will be able to resist the pull of their kinship?”

“Students from different houses can be friends,” said Jenna, mentally crossing her arms in defiance. “I want to be put into Ravenclaw, and that’s final.”

“Then it’s done. Good luck, Ms. Hilliard, and may we never meet again. RAVENCLAW!” shouted the hat, and the table under the blue banners erupted into cheers. Jenna staggered forward, making a few feeble steps towards the table, then collapsed onto the floor in a heap.

There were cries of alarm from House Ravenclaw, who pulled Jenna’s unconscious form to their table and splashed her face with a full goblet of water. Madam Sprout (who had retired from her position as Head of House Hufflepuff and Professor of Herbology, only to become the matron instead after Poppy Pomfrey’s retirement in 2014), began to rush over from the table in the back, a healing kit tucked under one arm. 

“She’s alright,” called an older Ravenclaw as Jenna spluttered awake, instinctively wiping her face to clear away the water. Sprout retreated back. McGonagall returned to calling out names, and the Sorting Hat continued to cry out the names of the four houses.

There was a fifth primary table in the Great Hall, one which had gone largely ignored during the sorting ceremony. It consisted of all students in their seventh year or above, who had been removed from the house system in order to promote house unity. These older students took more complicated and rigorous classes, and also often served as teacher assistants or house-non-specific prefects. They would also help people like Harry Potter and Hermione Granger with their top secret and often highly dangerous research. The oldest among them was Charlie Vanisgelt, at 22 years old. Charlie watched as the children half his age were sorted into the familiar four houses, one by one. He began to note the length of time that each student spent under the hat, in particular because one of them had taken an unusually long time. Perhaps it was just a fluke—she was certainly no Harry Potter—but nevertheless, Charlie made a mental note that Jenna Hilliard might somehow be important.

And Charlie Vanisgelt was rarely wrong.

* * *

“Lestrange, Isabelle,” said McGonagall, and Jenna’s friend nervously flounced up the stairs to where the Sorting Hat waited.

Jenna held her breath as the sorting hat hemmed and hawed, quirking its “eyebrows” at the peculiar case of the very smart Slytherin.

But before long… “RAVENCLAW!”

Professor McGonagall looked genuinely surprised at that. There were a few gasps of surprise from both Ravenclaw and Slytherin houses. Jenna cheered as her friend walked proudly to the Ravenclaw table, taking her seat next to Jenna.

“Nice,” Jenna whispered, taking the girl’s hand in her own and giving it a small squeeze.

“Lestrange, Luke,” said McGonagall, and the hall fell silent again.

Luke climbed the stairs nervously, his traditional sly grin replaced with an anxious, caged look.

“He has stage fright,” Isabelle whispered. Jenna wasn’t sure that was the primary reason that Luke looked so scared.

The Sorting Hat sat on his head silently, not moving around or making noises like it usually did. The seconds dragged on. At one point Luke turned and locked eyes with Jenna, making a small strangled sound. Jenna understood.

Seconds turned into minutes. People began to watch the clock, silently counting the seconds to themselves in disbelief. Three minutes. Four. Four and a half minutes in, the Sorting Hat, said “interesting,” and then fell silent again. Whispers began. How long had Harry Potter lasted? Eight minutes? Nine? What could there be to deliberate about? He was either a Slytherin, like his older sister, or a Ravenclaw, like his other older sister. What was the holdup?

Six minutes into Luke Lestrange’s sorting, the Sorting Hat took a deep breath and shouted (and suddenly Jenna knew what was coming):

“GRYFFINDOR!”

There was a stunned silence as the hat was lifted from Luke’s head. Everyone looked shocked. Nobody knew how to respond. Some clapping began from some first year Gryffindors, but it was quickly stamped out by the older ones. Only Harry Potter seemed unperturbed, smiling benevolently at the boy as he made his way to the Gryffindor table in a daze.

Charlie Vanisgelt was no longer interested in Jenna Hilliard. The Lestrange boy, a Gryffindor? Now _that_ was interesting.

Isabelle was on her feet in an instant, running over to her brother, who had a funny look on his face. “Hey, hey, hey,” she was saying, “it’s okay. We’ll get you a house change form, don’t worry.” Luke made it to the Gryffindor table, where he took a seat and shook his head.

“Just kidding,” yelled someone from further down the Gryffindor table. “Slytherin!” There were some scattered laughs, but most people just looked confused.

"Gryfferin,” someone else said, but fewer people laughed at that, and the ones who did sounded more awkward and nervous than genuinely amused.

“No,” said Luke. “This is what I wanted.”

“What?” Isabelle asked. “No it isn’t. The Sorting Hat tricked you, or something. You’re a genius, man. Don’t you want to be with me and Jenna in the house for smart people?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Luke said, slowly. “I don’t think it’s right for me to pretend to be something I’m not.”

“Jenna, were you also offered Gryffindor?” Isabelle asked.

“Kind of?” Jenna said. “Not really, but it did offer me Hufflepuff.”

“See,” Isabelle said, desperately. “I was also offered Gryffindor, Luke, but that doesn’t make me one!”

“Please return to your seats,” McGonagall said crisply, though her tone was not unkind.

“I-I’ll think about transferring,” Luke said. “Really, I will.” Something in his voice was pleading.

“Okay,” said Isabelle lamely, unable to think of anything else to say, and she and Jenna returned to the Ravenclaw table.

The boy sitting next to Luke had tentatively struck up a conversation with him. Jenna hoped he would be alright.

The ceremony continued.

* * *

“Good evening, first years,” said McGonagall, once the sorting ceremony was over and she was back in her seat at the head table. “Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And to everyone who is returning, let’s make this another fantastic year.

“Before we begin the banquet, there are several important announcements to be made. First of all, the library and common rooms all have internet access except between the hours of 2 and 7 in the morning. This limitation, of course, does not apply to students in their seventh year or above.

“As is the case every year, access to the library’s Restricted Section will be granted to any student who is cleared by their head of house. For Gryffindor, this is Professor Eliezer Yudkowsky.” The man in green got to his feet and gave a little bow.

“Professor Yudkowsky is a squib,” an older Ravenclaw girl whispered. “Dr. Potter brought him here to teach muggle studies, and he also gives extracurriculars in ‘applied rationality.’”

“For Hufflepuff, this is Professor Matilda Dewcross.” Dewcross stood and gave a curt nod, smiling at the Hufflepuff table. “For Ravenclaw, this is Professor Filius Flitwick.” Here, the goblin man stood on his chair and bowed stiffly. “And for Slytherin, this is Professor Septima Vector.” This was the woman in red, apparently.

“There are a couple of new professors at Hogwarts this year,” said Professor McGonagall. “We were very sad last year to see Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank retire from her post as Professor of Care of Magical Creatures. This year, we are graced with the presence of Professor Charles Weasley, a world renowned magizoologist with a particular interest in the care of dragons and thestrals.” A man with bright red hair who had been seated at the table in the back stood up and waved.

“We are also joined this year,” Professor McGonagall continued, “by a new Defence professor, as we are every year. Please welcome—”

Suddenly, the Great Hall was plunged into darkness, and a bolt of lightning snaked out of a faux cloud on the enchanted ceiling, seemingly in slow motion. It struck the floor in front of the head table with a loud crack and the lights came back on, though they were dimmer now. Gasps had given way to silence; there was a wizard standing where the lightning had hit. It was the man from the front page of the newspaper, former Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Hello,” he said, his voice booming through the hall. “I am Professor Shacklebolt, and I will be teaching you Defence Against the Dark Arts this year.” He let his words hang in the air for a moment. If he was using some kind of magic to amplify his voice, it wasn’t obvious.

“I suspect,” he continued, “that many of you have not yet had a decent education in the subject, a failing brought on by the curse on the position which I now seek to occupy. In the spirit of the late Kelsey Doffin, and of the even later David Munroe, I will be attempting to remedy this, as it is becoming more important now than ever before that young witches and wizards are equipped with the knowledge necessary to stave off dark and dangerous foes.

“If you are not up to date on the current events of the wizarding world, the appearance of several powerful practitioners of dark magic may have escaped your notice. Perhaps the most vicious among these resides within the borders of Great Britain, a new He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. As these individuals amass their forces and grow in number, it is unclear what their collective endgame might be, though they do appear to be coordinating with each other.

“Your professors and I are all in agreement that it is too much to ask for our youth to endanger themselves in the face of this great evil, but we also agree that self-defence is nevertheless an important skill to have, in the case that we are confronted by any number of these threats.

“Furthermore,” said Shacklebolt, leveling his wand at the door to the Great Hall, “we will be having a dueling competition this year, overseen by myself and Professor Flitwick. By the end of October, each house will have voted on two champions from each year to represent them, and these eight champions will, in turn, duel each other for a prize of one hundred house points and twelve hours of one-on-one tutoring with myself, or with another professor of your choosing..

“Therefore,” he said, his wand still aimed at the door, “the afterschool dueling club will continue this year, and you are all encouraged to attend. _Accio Goblet!_ ”

The doors burst open, and a tall pewter goblet on a stone pedestal slid across the floor, towards where Shacklebolt stood. The Great Hall seemed to distort a bit, and the head tables suddenly blurred as they moved further back. The goblet ended up in front of the Ravenclaw table, maybe five meters from where Jenna was sitting, just at the foot of the steps.

“This is the Goblet of Fire,” Professor Shacklebolt said, as the goblet came to life, spewing blue flames up towards the ceiling, “which you may or may not remember from the Triwizard Tournament three years ago. This year, we will be using it in the dueling tournament. In three weeks time, the protective charm around it will be lifted, and you will be allowed to cast your votes. Attempt to vote before the charm is removed, and you will be knocked backwards. This will hurt quite a bit, I am told, so please do not attempt to vote before the charm is removed.” There was a quiet murmur from some of the older students.

“I would also like to add,” he said, “that I will have near-constant office hours. As long as I am not eating, teaching, or asleep, you will likely be able to find me in my office. Please make extensive use of this feature of my tenure here, for I fear I will not be able to continue teaching at Hogwarts once the year is through, for one reason or another.”

Then he walked—no, floated—up the steps, and took the seat at the end of the table, opposite Professor Dewcross. He reached into a small vase on his side of the table and procured what looked to be a piece of taffy wrapped in clear plastic. Then he put it in the pocket of his robes.

McGonagall stood up again, clearing her throat. “Thank you, Professor Shacklebolt. As I’m sure many of you are already aware, Professor Shacklebolt is the former Minister of Magic, succeeded recently by the highly competent auror captain Eneasz Brodsky. It is imperative that you show him a level of respect that surpasses that which you show to other Hogwarts professors, at the least.

“I think that concludes my preliminary announcements. Unless one of our professors has something to add…”  
“I’d like to say something,” said Harry Potter, rising from his seat. McGonagall sat down again. “Thirty-one years ago, Lord Voldemort caused Headmaster Albus Dumbledore to go missing. My recent research has begun to suggest that he is retrievable. I do not know how long it will take to find him, but I am working on it. That is all.”

Then he sat down again, and immediately people began talking amongst themselves.

“Let the feast commence!” he shouted, as an afterthought, and food began appearing on the tables.

* * *

“Dr. Potter doesn’t say much anymore,” Isabelle said to Jenna as she helped herself to a third slice of treacle tart. Jenna had stopped eating a while ago, after she’d tasted as many things as she could stomach. “He’s brilliant, but he only speaks when he feels it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Mm,” Jenna said, though her mind was on Luke. “Isabelle, don’t you think we ought to go sit with the Gryffindors?”

“I don’t think that’s allowed,” Isabelle replied. “Not on the first day at least.”

An older Ravenclaw glanced at them and gave them a nod. “You can sit wherever you want tomorrow, but on special occasions everyone sits together with their houses.”

“I’m just worried,” Jenna said.

Isabelle gave her a look. “ You only met him last week, and I’m his sister. If I’m not very worried, you shouldn’t be either.”

“I just can’t help but feel like he’s going to get lonelier and lonelier. I still don’t understand… I thought he wanted Ravenclaw.”  
“You think there’s foul play involved?” Isabelle asked, biting the head off of a chocolate bunny and chewing thoughtfully.

“No,” Jenna said, shaking her head. “I can’t think of a motive, and besides, he said himself that he wanted to be in Gryffindor.”

Isabelle turned around and craned her neck to see over the Hufflepuff table. “He’s fine,” she said, turning back to face Jenna. “It looks like he’s talking to the boy next to him.”

“I wonder if we’ll have any classes together,” Jenna thought out loud.

“We’ll try to eat together,” Isabelle suggested. “And maybe we can hang out in the library sometimes.”

“It’s just such a shame, you know. I’m only as smart as I am because I have a near perfect memory. Luke’s as smart as he is because he really is that smart. If anything, I should have been the one who went to Gryffindor.”

“Maybe,” Isabelle said slowly, “but maybe he was scared of going dark. Ravenclaw and Slytherin are the only two houses that dark wizards really come out of.”

“Your dad...” Jenna said, then trailed off.

“He’s not dark, just proud. But his mother… well, have you heard of Bellatrix Black?”

“Voldemort’s right hand,” Jenna recalled. “I read about her in _Hogwarts: A History_ . She was your _grandmother_?”

“Is,” Isabelle corrected. “She’s still alive, but in hiding somewhere. Father seems to think that Harry Potter was the one who freed her from Azkaban.”

Another first year who was sitting across the table from them choked on his banana custard.

“That’s… an interesting thought,” said Jenna. “I’m afraid I haven’t quite gotten _that_ far in _Hogwarts: A History_.”

Isabelle laughed. “The breakout was coincident with Voldemort’s actual return. But then father has a conspiracy theory for that, too.”

“Is that why he’s loyal to Dr. Potter?” Jenna asked, thinking back to her brief meeting with the elder Lestrange.

Isabelle nodded. “They tend to agree anyway, but that certainly makes their alliance stronger. Have another slice of treacle tart, Jenna. The feast is almost over.”

As if on cue, all of the food in the center of the tables disappeared, and Professor McGonagall clapped loudly three times, standing from her throne at the head table.

“First years,” she said, “will be shown to their dormitories. Everyone who is not a first year or a prefect will stay behind for the school song—” (there were several audible groans at this) “—and some other announcements regarding off-campus and the like.”

The older Ravenclaw who’d told them about seating during meals got to her feet. “First year Ravens, with me.”

As they were led out the giant wooden doors of the Great Hall, Jenna managed to sneak a peek at one of the small sheets of music that had appeared in front of the older Ravenclaws. Professor Flitwick pulled his chair out, dragging it to the front of the raised area where the teachers sat, so that he was positioned just above where the Goblet of Fire continued to spew its dramatic blue flames.

“One, two, three, and!” he squeaked, using his wand to conduct.


End file.
